COPYRIGHT INFO The Sporadic Verses are copyright 1992, 1993 and 1994 by Jeff Berry and Ben Baron. They may be reproduced in any SCA publication so long as this copyright notice is retained, they are not sold for profit, and the authors receive a copy. If you want to sell them for profit, or buy the nice bound collected editions, contact Jeff Berry, nexus@panix.com END OF COPYRIGHT INFO - Date: 11/25/97 The Sporadic Verses - an epistle in n parts Being a Satire of nothing in particular Fixes Parking Tickets, gets you a Peerage From the civic minded pens of Louis-Philippe Mitouard and Alexandre Lerot d'Avigne Episode the Tenth Chapter Twenty-Five Outside the tent of Sir Duncan mac Dostoevsky a few early vigil goers had begun to gather. Most of the attendees were waiting until later for two reasons; first, this would allow them to get rip-snorting drunk, so that their wisdom would flow more copiously and with less hindrance, and second they had a mistaken belief that some sort of reverse precedence was in effect and the later you went the more important you would seem. Some believers in this had gone so far as to attend the vigil some months after the actual knighting ceremony had taken place. Inside the tent, Lord Peter mac Bilt, the candidate, was speaking in a low voice to Sir Kara Mazov, the fighting Venetian Jewess, who was explaining what she would require to support her squire for knighthood. "A pound of flesh? That's all?" Peter asked. "Yes, a pound of flesh taken nearest the heart!" Kara replied. "Have you no scruples?" "Of blood? Several, but that is not in the contract!" Her lecture complete, Sir Kara departed. As she left she was almost bowled over by a large woman resplendent in an opulent but loose-fitting wine-stained Tudor dress. This new arrival stomped into camp, accompanied by a gentlemen exceptional only in his obsequiousness and worminess of manner. The herald, for of course that is what he was, announced in a loud voice to the general crowd, "Send out your best guy and a keg for the Princess of the Moonlands." His companion punctuated this demand with a belch of epic proportions. Sir Duncan approached this apparition, but before he could reach them, the woman spied the large bonfire which was warding off the night's cold. With a gait that could only be described as erratic she closed on the fire with such enthusiasm that mac Dostoevsky was struck with a pang of homesickness, "She moves like a Panzer column closing on Stalingrad," he thought, and then wondered if such sentiments were period. She did, however, appear to be content by the fire at the moment so Duncan let her be as a herd of unfashionably early arrivals needed attending to. His attention was drawn back, as was the attention of everyone else in camp, by the unmistakable sound of retching. The loud woman, having tapped the provided keg to its dregs, was now voiding her stomach into the campfire. The fire faced with the Herculean task of continuing its ignition in this deluge sputtered softly then, with a sound that might have been a sigh, passed into memory. The woman finished, then gave a delicate little urp and dabbed her mouth daintily with her handkerchief, as though nothing were amiss. She seemed momentarily stunned, but she then gathered her wits and in a voice that would have shattered a champagne glass were one in period and within range bellowed out, "What kind of a miserable camp is this? I'm cold. There's no fire!" With that pronouncement, she made a precipitous and unsteady, if hasty, retreat toward the edge of the camp, her herald solicitously, if pretentiously, leading the way. As she left, one of the new arrivals was heard to gasp, "But who was that boorish woman?" His companion shushed him, "That was the visiting Princess of the Moonlands -- their customs are different than ours." Once outside the camp, the woman's gait steadied quickly and, with a furtive glance over her shoulder, she and her entourage of one ducked into the underbrush. "Well, how did it go?" inquired Cyrano as he helped Bill out of the voluminous padding which was strapped around his waist under the Tudor gown. "Well, I think," replied John, who required no help in shedding his disguise as the herald. "Bill makes a better actor than playwright." The apprentice beamed, this was higher praise than anything his master had ever said. "Good," replied Cyrano, "anything which heightens the tension between the Wastelands and their neighboring Kingdoms and Principalities can not be bad. Besides, we didn't exaggerate the Princess' proclivities much." The faux Princess had only been gone a few minutes, and the air had started to clear when the party of Archduke Sir Lancelot Soloflex arrived. The previous scent was replaced by that of cheap cologne as he swept into camp, along with his squire, Melrose, their toady, Von Plato, and several hangers-on. Lancelot approached the young squire, Heathcliffe mac Knife, who was taking names for the next to enter the vigil. Even though there was no one currently in the tent, Sir Lancelot wished to make sure that all the peons had gone before him, even if it took all night. The squire noted this in his notebook as he asked the standard litany of questions. An unusually well-behaved Soloflex was willing to answer. "Purpose of visit? Gift-giving, brown nosing or fatuous advice." Soloflex paused a moment, unwilling to admit he did not understand all the big words that erudite squire had said. He knew that he had no gifts to give, so that was out, and brown-nosing, that he understood, so he gamely chose the only other alternative. He puffed himself up to his fullest and said, "Why, only the fatuousest advice for my friend's squire." Melrose, in earshot, could only clap his hand over his forehead in disgust while Von Plato winced. Soloflex would have been content to merely sit and wait except that he found himself getting cold. He stood, resolved that he had had enough pride -- he would rather be between two warm sheets. Just as he approached the tent, however, into the light now swept Lady Madonna, baby at her breast. For a woman with a child, she moved with remarkable agility. She swept with ease past Soloflex, throwing a hip shiver and straight-arm which would make a football star jealous. As the woman sat down in the tent, Soloflex protested, "Ma'am, excuse me, I _was_ here first." "Shh," she exclaimed at the top of her voice, "you'll wake my baby." The baby snored contentedly as she continued, "I had to get here early so I could get my baby home soon." Four interminable hours later, Lady Madonna left. Now it was Soloflex's turn. He went on for several minutes. Finally, his voice could be heard as he started to leave the tent. "Now remember, boy, what I told you. Repeat it so you don't forget." "If it ain't breaking, I ain't taking", the young squire replied wearily. Soloflex had obviously repeated this several times. Melrose was eavesdropping outside the tent flap, not so much out of curiosity as to monitor the malapropisms which inevitably crept into Soloflex's speech. As he mouthed the familiar words silently to himself, he could feel the aches in his body garnered from following that advice. He sprang up and returned to the campfire before his master could see him. Meanwhile Von Plato contented himself with drinking and teaching the camp all the verses to "Laurel Uber Alles". "Laurel, Laurel Uber Alles, Queen of peerages thee! Not crass and low like Pelicans, commoners as all can see! Laurel, Laurel Uber Alles, Queen of peerages thee! Knights are bumpkins poorly dressed, who need aid to take a pee! Laurel, Laurel Uber Alles, Skill, it is thy name! Those who are merely royal peers must hang their heads in shame! L-A-U-R-E-L, better by far than others may claim! L-A-U-R-E-L, better by far at shifting the blame! Fighters are slovenly, unseemly folk, wallowing all in the muck, if it wasn't for Laurels offering classes, they would not even know how to ..." He stopped quickly as Lancelot approached, correctly guessing that the Archduke would not appreciate the song. "Come gentlemen, on the morrow I must take a Crown!" and with that Soloflex and his motley band left for home.